in real life

One’s real life is often the life that one does not lead. -- Oscar Wilde

I’ve been napping in my chairand have wakened just in time.Sleeping in the daytime sharpens mefor night life, as if it were my jobto get up and wet down my reedsto play the clarinet in a small ensemblewhere the first set doesn’t start till half past ten.My nap was the color of a moss agate,gray-green and striped, buffed to sheenand sweat, the usual nightmares:the house burns down with all my writing in it;a famous and successful writer friend offers me her dregs:Here, take these, I don’t need them anymore.My editor ransacks my closets. His shirt is ripped offby my faithful and beautiful, half-vicious dog.In real life, I am planning a new career. I imaginefor myself a small congregation of gay Episcopalianssomewhere in the Midwest, in a town not known fortolerance, but respectful, even a bit in awe ofanything that passes for style. I am their priest,their good shepherd, and all my flock playmusical instruments and give amusing dinner parties.Or, there is the life I seem to have imagined myself intoin which I am cleaning my reeds and shining my shoesfor the band that doesn’t exist, in the town I never lived inplaying the instrument I don’t know how to play.